


Love the Color of Autumn's Mantle

by LadyNimrodel



Series: Lost but not Gone [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: But mostly fluff, Established Relationship, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tiny bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 17:37:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4188849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyNimrodel/pseuds/LadyNimrodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>My excuse to write top!Bilbo. Bilbo uses sex to help manage Thorin's moods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love the Color of Autumn's Mantle

**Author's Note:**

> There had been a few amazing top!Bilbo headcanons on tumblr and I wanted to join the bandwagon. Because who doesn't love a little assertive Bilbo? 
> 
> Also, come follow me on tumblr at http://lament-for-nimrodel.tumblr.com/ and we can talk and cry over Bilbo and Thorin to our hearts content :))

Over the years, Bilbo has discovered Thorin’s favorite time of year is autumn. When he asked, the dwarf looked at him with a considering gaze. 

“The colors,” he answered, voice soft, “I have traveled very far and nowhere in Middle Earth do the trees and the grass turn colors quite like this.” and the colors in the Shire are quite magnificent. The leaves on the trees are rich yellows, vibrant oranges, reds of every hue, some even deep, dark purples. The fields of grass, of corn, of wheat, turn into golden lakes and become dotted with white and yellow flowers. Hedges turn a deeper, jeweled green and the lakes and rivers gobble up the blue of the sky, winding like strings of sapphires through the landscape. Bilbo does not remember much of the autumn he spent with the company outside the Shire. A lot of it was spent in the gloomy forests and later, shadowed dungeons of Mirkwood. So he has nothing to compare the riot of color of home to. 

He supposes that if it makes Thorin’s face soften in awe, leaving him prone to wandering the lanes and fields for hours, it must be something to behold. It was autumn when he first arrived in the Shire, Bilbo thinks, years ago, trailing grief and loss behind him like a cloak. And while the grief has fallen away, dimmed with time and love, something about autumn makes Thorin turn quiet and seek privacy more often. 

Bilbo knows why. 

The approach of Durin’s Day, of the Anniversary of the Battle, still weighs heavily on Thorin’s heart, no matter the distance or how much time has gone by. 

Sometimes, Bilbo is content to leave him to his introspection and silence. 

Other times, he is not. 

He notices that today is not a day for solitude when he catches sight of Thorin from the window of his study. The dwarf is in the back garden, shirt left behind on a bench despite the cool autumn air and Orcrist flashing in his hand. It is not an unusual thing for Thorin to do; almost every day he goes out and spends a few hours flowing gracefully through forms and working his body until sweat gleams on his skin. But today the motions are choppy and when Bilbo catches sight of his face, it is dark with anger. 

He puts his pen down with a sigh and closes the book he was scribbling notes in. There is a song he wants to write, one about a blue eyed king returning from battle victorious but broken and who soon passes into legend despite the security of his kingdom. Not so different from the real story, Bilbo thinks, and he knows he will never sing it in front of Thorin. But the words need to be written, for they sit heavily in his heart. Songs can wait, though, for a while. He must tend to the real person before he can go about writing fanciful songs about him. 

There are only two ways he knows to banish that look on Thorin’s face. 

One is a yelling match, giving the dwarf something to rile against. They have shouted at each other so loudly, Hamfast has knocked on the door several times, face worried and eyes darting between the two of them. But for some reason, arguments seem to help. Something about the explosion of anger and raised voices seems to draw out Thorin’s bitterness like infection from a wound. They never say anything truly hurtful; that is not the point. The point is the catharsis that comes after a clashing of wills. Usually made up with soft kisses and hours of cuddling on Thorin’s favorite armchair. No apologies are made and none of the arguments are rehashed. Silence and gentle touches soothe frayed nerves and for awhile, Thorin is calm.

The other way is considerably more pleasant for both of them. 

Bilbo makes a detour into the bedroom, slipping a bottle of softly scented oil into his pocket before making his way out into the back garden. 

The air is full of color and scent. Trees surround his back gardens, brighter than jewels and bees work hurriedly among his flowers, gathering as much pollen as they can before the frost sets in. Thorin stands in the grass, feet and chest bare, the tattoos on his back gleaming with sweat. Muscle moves fluidly under sun darkened skin. Despite being fed well and living in the Shire peacefully for nearly four years, Thorin is still thick muscle and very little fat. He cuts a fine figure as he moves gracefully through the open space, fierce and dangerous and lovely. Orcrist sings as it is swung around, first in an upwards sweep then around, so that it is pointing at Bilbo’s chest at the end of its rotation. Thorin stares at him for a long moment, an island of stillness in the bright liveliness of the garden. Finally he lets his arm fall and the sword edge digs into the dirt. 

“What’s wrong?” Bilbo asks, voice quiet and visage calm. Inside his chest, his heart races. The jar is heavy in his pocket and anticipation makes his mouth run dry. He forces himself to remain serene. This always takes a little finesse, pulling Thorin from his dark moods. Thorin grunts and whirls away, fingers restless on the braid that he twisted his hair into to keep it out of his face. 

“Your relatives are a menace,” the dwarf growls, voice dark. Surprised, Bilbo is slightly derailed. Usually most of his family avoids Thorin, dubbing him ‘Bilbo’s wild dwarf’. Like he is some kind of pet. He watches as Thorin unravels his dark hair, now streaked liberally with silver. It spills over his back in a riot of damp curls, covering the broad, sweeping lines of dwarven tattoos.

“I am aware of that,” Bilbo responds, words slow, “Is this about the party?” his patient question makes Thorin growl and he begins to pace with long, aggressive strides. Five steps towards the rose bushes, five back to the bench. Orcrist stands like a silent observer between them. 

“They exclude you because of me! They shun you and gossip about you and now won’t invite you to their ridiculous parties, all because I’m here! To treat you so cruelly, to purposely ostracize you!” Thorin is working himself into a fine rage now, hair flying, clinging to the sweat on his skin. The sight sends a tingle of heat through Bilbo, hunger hot in his veins. He manages to keep his smile under control. Seeing him grin now will only make Thorin’s anger flare higher. 

“If you’re talking about Lobelia and her disinclination to invite me to Otho’s party, you know it’s nothing new,” he says gently, though this righteous anger in his defense only makes him want to push Thorin back into the clover all the more, “She’s been horrible ever since she married into the family, quite a few years before you showed up. This is only a new strategy in her campaign, I’m afraid. Never quite forgiven me for swearing to make sure she never saw the inside of Bag End as its mistress.” That had been an enjoyable day; he will never forget the look on her face when he told her that. He would not take that back for all the snubs in the world. He can see the way Thorin’s jaw keeps clenching that he does not agree. 

“I’ve heard the things they say about you,” he growls back, hair beads flashing when he runs thick fingers through his curls. Bilbo does smile now, because Thorin’s anger at his relatives is endearing. 

“I know what they say about me, love. Just like Lobelia’s ire, they have been calling me odd for a long while. My little foray out of the Shire with a company of dwarves certainly didn’t help matters. But there are plenty here who like me still. And you. Anyone who is as good with children as you could never stay in disfavor among hobbits for very long, even if you did tear my stellar reputation to shreds,” Bilbo lets his smile curl upwards a little more and takes great delight when Thorin’s gaze gets caught on his bottom lip. He licks it. 

And watches anger slowly morph into something else. 

Thorin swallows, restless movement now arrested and he cannot seem to stop staring at Bilbo’s lips. 

“But…you’re not upset that the entire countryside is attending that party and you are not?” his voice is a little unsure and his gaze flickers away, like he is remembering why he was angry. 

“Bah! One party makes no difference to me. There is practically a party every week, I’m sure I will cope just fine,” he reaches up and loosens his cravat, letting it flutter to the ground where it puddles over the grass. It is forgotten as he takes a confident stride forward. Thorin’s eyes, bluer than the sky, flicker to the hollow of his throat then back to his lips. The evidence of Thorin’s desire stokes his own and he starts on the buttons of his waistcoat, “Besides, I have you to keep me company. I shan’t miss it.” Rich fabric whispers to the ground, next to his cravat and he stands in his shirtsleeves, hands on his hips and a smile curling at the corners of his lips. Thorin is well and truly caught now, just as Bilbo knew he would be. 

But there is still uncertainty in his eyes, warring with the heat of desire. 

“Sometimes I think…maybe by being here, I make your life harder,” Thorin says slowly, sadly and Bilbo’s heart aches. With deliberate motions, he slips one suspender from his shoulder, followed swiftly by the other. 

“Of course you do,” he murmurs, refusing to let Thorin’s self-loathing take hold. It is always there; he doubts the dwarf will ever be rid of it. But Bilbo will love him enough to smother the need to indulge in it. He will spend every day for the rest of his life showing Thorin how important it is to have him here in the Shire, in his life again, even if the dwarf is never truly convinced of it, “You are stubborn and quick to judgement and anger. You still track mud onto my carpets even after I’ve told you again and again boots come off at the door and you leave piles books lying around the house,” Thorin’s brow darkens, expression turning defensive but before he can work himself up again, Bilbo smiles gently at him and begins to unbutton his fine linen shirt, “And I would not have it any other way. Because you are also part of me. You belong to me, Thorin Oakenshield, and no amount of muddy tracks and stubbornness will change that. Nor will nasty gossip from even nastier relatives.” 

There is a ringing silence when he stops talking and he can see his words have left Thorin raw and open. They usually do, when Bilbo speaks with open frankness. He does not always need to express himself so prolifically but when he does, this is usually the result. 

He steps forward again, shirt half unbuttoned, and slides his hands into Thorin’s hair. Hot breath hitches against his forehead and strong arms catch him around his waist, holding him tight. 

“How can you say things like that so easily?” the dwarf whispers hoarsely. Bilbo can feel him shaking and realizes just how on edge Thorin really is. He breathes him in, the smell of sweat and sunshine and the always the faint scent of metal. Where their chests press together, he can feel rapid a heartbeat, furious under Thorin’s skin. 

“Do you think it is so easy for me?” Bilbo responds, voice thick as he rubs his face against the ridge of a thick collarbone, “I think telling you how much I need you is the hardest thing I have ever done and I’ll remind you I once talked down three trolls and a dragon,” Thorin grudgingly chuckles, a deep rumble that rolls through Bilbo and makes everything in him burn. With his hands buried in thick, silvery black curls, he presses all along Thorin’s body, chest, hip, thigh. The hard curve of muscle and bone pressing into him makes him sigh with pleasure. Big hands grip at his waist, holding him so close, if they were any closer, they would fade into each other’s skin. 

“Were would I be without you?” Thorin pauses and then adds, nearly too soft to hear, “My love.” There is heavy emotion in Thorin’s voice, choking the words. Bilbo presses a kiss into the skin of his shoulder, then uses his grip on Thorin’s hair to tilt his head to the side so he can kiss his neck. The hands holding his waist tighten, try to pull him impossibly closer. 

“Say it again,” Bilbo breathes into his ear before sucking on his silver ear clasps. The metal clicks against his teeth and the sound draws a soft, rumbling moan out of Thorin’s throat. When he would tip his head back down, Bilbo firms his grip and keeps it tilted as he wants, “Again,” he insists and smiles when blue eyes watch him from the strange angle. 

“My love,” Bilbo eases his grip on the hair in his hands and lets Thorin kiss him slowly. But Thorin is not done and whispers the next words against his lips, “my heart,” another kiss, “my—” ears burning, Bilbo cuts him off with a laugh and fingers against Thorin’s mouth.

“Alright! Alright, I get it,” blue eyes sparkle over the top of his hand, though he can see the teasing had made Thorin blush. He huffs, “I was being serious,” then squeaks when Thorin sucks two of his fingers into his mouth. His jaw hangs open, gasping as his fingers are encased in wet heat, a hint of teeth scraping his knuckle. Thorin’s tongue wraps around them, presses them apart and nipping at the webbing where fingers meet hand. With his free hand he pulls at the dark beard, shivering with arousal at a low sound that vibrates against his fingertips. When Thorin frees his hand, Bilbo is left hot and breathless. 

“I was being serious too,” Thorin rumbles and slants his mouth over Bilbo’s. 

Their kiss is a filthy thing, tongues lapping at teeth and long-familiar sensitive spots. Teeth bite and nip, fingers pull at curls, silver-black and honey alike, grip at necks and shoulders and hips. When Thorin slides his tongue over and over against the delicate roof of Bilbo’s mouth, he shouts, knees going weak. And when his own kiss slows, when he sucks at Thorin’s bottom lip, the dwarf growls so low it is more a feeling than a sound and he grips desperately at Bilbo’s hips like he needs support to stay standing. Breaking apart is nearly impossible and when they do, he feels wrecked, the world still rocking under his feet. 

It amazes him that even after all these years, after the thousands of kisses they have shared, it always feels like it did in the beginning. 

“Did you come out here with this in mind?” Thorin breathes against his cheek, hands creeping around to grip Bilbo’s arse. He rocks into them, closing his eyes with a pleased sigh. 

“I might have,” he admits, gasping as he is jerked forward, hips grinding against Thorin’s in a decidedly pleasant way. He peers through his curls to see the blue eyes watching him, intent upon his face, “You looked like you could use a distraction.” Dark eyebrows lift and he cannot help leaning in to lick into the corner of Thorin’s lips when they curl upwards in a smirk. 

“Indeed, and what a lovely distraction it is,” the laugh rolls through him like a shuddering wind, “And how do you want me, since you have had ample time to plan this all before you even stepped out the door,” Bilbo sputters, indignant, though he cannot stay annoyed for very long when he can feel the thick length of Thorin’s cock pressing hot against his belly. No matter that Thorin is right about knowing exactly what he wants, of course. 

“I have no idea what you mean,” he announces and promptly groans when Thorin slides one hand into the back of his trousers, “That’s not fair,” his wits are scattering, getting lost amid the rush of arousal when fingers dip between and in. Unthinkingly, he spreads his thighs, moaning as the touch moves up and down, rubbing teasingly against his entrance. It takes him a moment to remember that he wanted something different today. With a steadying breath, he pushes Thorin back a little bit and flushes at the dark heat he finds in the depths of those pale eyes.

“I was hoping…perhaps…” he reaches around and palms at Throin’s buttocks. They flex at his touch, firm under his small hands and Throin’s eyes flare with interest. He knows exactly what Bilbo is asking, even if he cannot finish the question with words. 

“Aye, that we can,” Thorin hums, licking his way into Bilbo’s mouth before pulling away entirely. He remembers clearly the first time he asked for this. It had taken him days to work up the courage just to admit that he even wanted it, let alone form his desire into words and string them together so that Thorin could understand. Turns out, he did not really need to ask. In an attempt to soothe the dwarf one cold winter day, he had simply taken the initiative. Afterwards, Thorin looked at him, eyes glazed and completely drained and said in a hoarse voice, “Why haven’t we done that sooner?” Still feeling shell-shocked, Bilbo had just shaken his head. 

When he wants something now, all he does is speak up. 

Thorin has yet to deny him anything. 

Now, the dwarf lets Bilbo push him back onto the grass, going willingly where he is directed. Trust shines in the beloved blue eyes, the sight of it making his heart beat wildly in his chest. Once Thorin is laid out on the ground, hair floating around him in silvery black streamers, Bilbo is sure to kiss him, sweet and slow. Thorin’s hot mouth opens under his own, tasting of sunshine and love.

“I would like it very much if you did what you came out here for,” Thorin’s voice is warm and inviting when he pulls away. Bilbo sits back on his heels and admires the dwarf. He looks like he belongs there, on his back with the grass so green around him and the sky reflecting in his eyes so they look like polished gems. His big hands lay open at either side of his head, not relaxed but waiting. Around Bilbo’s hips, his thighs are open and thick, giving him room to move. And when their eyes meet, Thorin smiles a sharp, feral smile. It is a dare, a challenge. 

Though his heart pounds and his hands shake with anticipation, he meets the challenge with a steady stare. 

“As you will,” he murmurs and unceremoniously strips Thorin of his trousers and small-clothes. Thorin laughs, the sound low and rumbling though he does not move. Bare as the day he was born, thick cock hard and damp at the tip, legs and arms splayed on the grass, he lets Bilbo look and touch his fill. 

So he does. Bilbo runs his hands over the offered body, fingers following the curve of muscle and the hardness of bone. They card through black hair on Thorin’s chest and belly and he leans in to dip his tongue into the inviting naval, sucking on the edges of it when Thorin’s hips raise to bump his chin. He pushes them back down with a sharp look upwards but all he sees is the peak of Thorin’s chin and the tip of his nose. Anticipation of pleasure is evident in the whiteness of his knuckles and the bob of his throat when he swallows. The very sight of it, of Thorin just laying back and waiting for it to happen makes something in Bilbo flare bright. Usually his hands are buried in honey brown curls or doing his damned best to make Bilbo come by rubbing the tips of his ears (which has happened a few times. It is a revelation for Thorin every single time but just embarrassing for Bilbo). 

He rewards Thorin’s patience with a lick up the underside of his thick cock and sucking at the spot where shaft meets head, holding the shifting hips as best he can with one hand. 

Dark curls toss against the grass, scattering sunlight and a single white butterfly. 

With his free hand, he digs the oil from his trouser pocket and puts it on grass within reach. Then he grasps Thorin’s ankles so he can guide them around his back. He loves the sensation, loves the strong thighs and calves pressed open and wrapped around him. Their strength, the power in them, barely tamed as they cling to his waist. He strokes the soft skin on the insides of Thorin’s thighs as he takes a leisurely moment to stuff his mouth full of Thorin’s cock, rubbing his tongue against the underside. With nimble fingers, he pulls at the full, round bullocks, stroking and rolling them in his palm. The taste of salty pre cum fills his mouth and he sucks harder, wants more of it, all of it. Thorin thrashes and gasps, fingers ripping at the grass, though he still keeps his hands well away from Bilbo. 

The display of self control is admirable but Bilbo does not want to see self control. He wants to see Thorin unable to stop the sounds coming from his mouth, unaware of his fingers leaving behind bruises or pulling at his own curls. 

He only spares a moment to unstopper the jar of oil and slick his fingers, mouth never leaving the head of Thorin’s cock. The scent, a sharp, minty smell that mingles in the air with the colorful smells of autumn, brings the dwarf’s head up. His blue eyes are nearly black, pupils blown wide, but the quirk of a smile peeks through his dark beard. It is a teasing smile and he can practically hear the unspoken quip about how Bilbo had brought the oil out with him. Bilbo pulls off with a hiss. 

“Not a word,” he all but growls and eases a finger into Thorin. The dwarf responds with a moan low enough to rattle through their connection, head dropping back to the earth. As Bilbo twists his wrist, hips roll to meet him, hitching when another finger joins the first. Watching as they press into tight, slick heat, his own arousal suddenly burns heavily in his gut and he needs more, needs the heat, needs the friction, needs their hips connecting again and again. 

Thorin is looking at him, knows how much Bilbo needs it and he growls, widening his thighs, asking with the way he tilts his hips. 

Later, Bilbo will discover he rips his trousers in his haste to get them unbuttoned and that they are further ruined when he drips oil onto them in his hurry to slick his cock. But now, now he just tries not to come at the feel of his own fingers, biting on Thorin’s knee in an effort not to cry out. 

“Bilbo,” Thorin’s voice is a broken thing and his hand trembles has he reaches for Bilbo’s wrist, “Now. Now, now,” as if Bilbo was going to deny either of them a second longer. He steadies himself with a tight grip on Thorin’s waist and pushes in, into the heat, into the welcoming tightness, breathless with the pleasure of it. Blessed Eru, it feels so…

When he moves, it is blindly, giving in to the need for the slide and pull. It is to feel the heat clenching around him, drawing him in. It is for Thorin’s soft, half uttered sounds, the grunts he makes when Bilbo angles his cock just right, the way his thighs have tightened and how his hands still rest beside his head. Thorin cannot stop the sharp sound he makes when Bilbo leans forward, sliding his fingers into empty palms, slotting them between the open spaces, tangling their hands together. They breathe into each other’s open mouths and sex in the garden becomes something else. Something more intimate, more immediate and bright. 

Their eyes catch and hold as he moves, hips angled just so, rubbing against the spot inside of Thorin that makes him clench his teeth and leave marks from his fingernails on the backs of Bilbo’s hands. Pleasure burns through him and he knows he will not last very long. The friction is too much despite the oil and he can feel his completion tingling in his belly and through his thighs. 

One thrust makes his knee skitter out from under him and when he adjusts, Thorin throws his head back and closes his eyes. He shakes from pleasure. Sweat clings to their skin and he licks at the hollow of the bared throat, moaning brokenly against the heated skin. 

He wants more than just one taste but it is all becoming overwhelming, every inch of him burning with the need to come. 

With a last ditch effort, Bilbo presses his forehead into Thorin’s chest and keeps the angle just right, makes sure that with the last few thrusts he has left in him will count. 

And then he is just too high, he is past staving off the end and with a cry, the heat in him crests. Tight in his belly and balls then spreading out in a wave of whiteness and rushing blood that drowns out everything, everything but the pleasure and the taste of Thorin lingering in his mouth. 

Coming down is nearly as good, the aftermath sparking in his veins for a long time, leaving him shaky and spent. Hands pet his sweaty curls, the touch a bit unsteady and he takes a moment to relish the feeling of being draped over Thorin, his cock softening in the heat of the dwarf’s body. It takes him even longer to realize Thorin is still hard under him and he is holding himself unnaturally still, like he will fly apart if he moves. Bilbo breathes slowly against the strong chest that hitches unevenly under his cheek before moving, slowly drawing out and away, untangling their hands reluctantly. 

Instantly Thorin’s hands are in his hair and his eyes, still dark with arousal, flutter open. There is desperation there, undeniable need but also so much affection Bilbo is sure he will drown in it if he keeps looking. 

He kisses Thorin instead and replaces his cock with his fingers, rubbing relentlessly on the spot inside Thorin sure to make him thrash. And Thorin does not disappoint, ripping his mouth away and gasping his pleasure at the sky. His cock drips onto his belly and his hips flex, back into Bilbo’s hand and then up, seeking his finish. Bilbo obliges, slinking down between his raised knees and taking his cock back into his mouth. He works his tongue and fingers in tandem, keeping to the places that Thorin likes best. Hands pull at his hair and low, steady cries break the quiet of his garden. It takes no more than a few well timed bobs of his head and curls of his fingers to tip Thorin over the edge. 

The strong thighs bracketing his head go rigid and for a moment Thorin stops breathing altogether. Bilbo is too busy swallowing his release to take in the bowed back and arched neck but he does quite enjoy the way his hair is pulled, even if it is hard enough that tears spring to his eyes. 

Thorin falls back into the grass with a grunt, pushing at Bilbo when it becomes too much. Still tingling from his own orgasm, he licks his lips clean and crawls up Thorin’s body, curling around him and burying his nose against a sweaty shoulder. Peaceful lassitude floods him, the autumn breeze cooling his skin. But there is heat pressed along his front and the memory of pleasure coiling through his veins and he never wants to move from this place. Thorin’s harsh breathing slows eventually and he turns his head so he can look at Bilbo, his blue eyes soft and shining. 

“I will never tease you for planning ahead again,” he murmurs, reaching around to rub gently at the tips of Bilbo’s ears. A spark runs through him at the touch but he is too sated to get hard right away. It invokes a softer pleasure and he hums contentedly against Thorin’s skin. 

“You probably will,” he mutters because Thorin always teases him for being prepared, no matter the occasion. But especially for this. Thorin insists that sex should be spontaneous, that planning it spoils the mood, “But I will continue to prove you wrong for as long as you continue to argue with me,” he gets a low, rumbling laugh in return and closes his eyes at the sound. How many times did he worry that he would never hear that sound again? When Thorin first came to the Shire, Bilbo feared it was a real possibility. So every time he hears it, he memorizes the sound, pulls it into his soul and treasures it with all of his being. 

“I like it when you prove me wrong,” Thorin admits, continuing to gently tug at Bilbo’s ear. The sensation is a little distracting and he melts further into the dwarf’s side, breathing in the scent of his sweat and skin. 

“Liar,” Bilbo mumbles, “you only like it when you get an orgasm out of it,” this time Thorin’s laugh is loud. A blue bird flutters away, out of his line of vision. 

“Or food,” is the lighthearted agreement and he rolls his eyes. 

“Or food. If I didn’t know better, I would say you are turning into a hobbit,” Thorin snorts and twists enough so he can press a fond kiss to Bilbo’s forehead.

“As long as I do not end up like your confounded relatives, I do not see how that is a bad thing,” the warmth in his voice makes Bilbo’s chest feel tight and hot and he kisses the skin in front of his face. 

“As if I would ever let that happen,” he breathes and desperately hopes Thorin does not change. For all of his moods and his snarling, towering temper, Bilbo loves everything about him. From the silvery-black crown of his head to his oddly small, delicate feet and everything in between. Despite his teasing, Thorin is nothing like a hobbit and Bilbo is content to keep him that way. It is a dwarf that he loves, down to the last strange, dwarfish trait. 

Even if Thorin still does not like tomatoes. 

They lay in silence as their bodies cool, listening to each other breathe, to the birds harmonizing in the trees, to the wind that whispers tales of far off lands. He wonders if he listens hard enough, could he can hear it sing about a mountain, a lonely peak standing proud against a far away sky. What would it tell of? Would it tell of the great pillars, forests of them, each carved into a work of art, of the strong, stout people that walk beneath them? Would it sing of the great ravens, of the darkened forest to the west, of the city to the south? Of the great markets slowly coming back to life, of a town burned to cinders upon a lake, of the bones of a dragon, long bared and drowned? Bilbo composes a few lines of such a song in his head but none of them sound right. Any words he can think of are stained with the memory of blood and loss. The wind would not remember the battle and it does not care for the lives lost there. 

If it sings, it sings of freedom and distant storms and snowfall atop tall, rocky mountain ranges. 

And Bilbo, lying in his garden behind Bag End, does not miss those far away lands. The only adventure he will ever need again is Thorin in his arms.

“Are you sure you are not upset about getting no invite?” Thorin’s voice breaks the stillness and Bilbo sighs. The moment is gone. He lifts himself so he is resting his chin on Thorin’s chest and peers into the deep, pale eyes. 

“I have said I am not and I have not changed my mind. We will stay here and have our own party if we must! In fact, I’ve been meaning to try Bell’s recipe for chocolate cranberry tarts and I think—” Bilbo is cut off with a kiss, sloppy from the angle but lovely despite that. They are both smiling by the time they pull away. 

“I understand,” Thorin says softly and lays back on the grass, never losing his smile. Flushed though he cannot say why, Bilbo hides his face in a strong chest. They will get up soon, driven inside once the sun dips behind the trees by the cold. They will change their clothes and clean up, Bilbo lamenting over his ruined trousers, delaying each other with lingering touches and lips tasting skin. But they will not get another round because Bilbo’s stomach will growl and Thorin will laugh, another bright, happy sound that he will have to lick away, out of the willing, smiling mouth. Dinner will be made next, the pheasant he got from market this morning perhaps and Thorin will watch from the kitchen table while he pretends to read. 

But that will happen later. 

Now they fit together upon the grass, two pieces of one complex, messy, broken puzzle and watch wisps of cloud make abstract patterns in the sky. 

“I like the sound of chocolate tarts,” Thorin says thoughtfully after a bit and Bilbo laughs and laughs. 

end

**Author's Note:**

> The main story for this is coming soon (three long parts of angst and sadness) but you don't need it to read these. I really just want to write about Bilbo and Thorin being shmoopy and happy in the Shire. I'm confident there will be more of these to come.


End file.
